There, but for the grace of God, go I
by ConstantineMK
Summary: This is an AchillesParis fic, with a companion piece coming later on, depending. MM
1. Default Chapter

**THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.**

Chapter One: No Love Lost

The army in opposition stood three thousand strong. Upon the white dust and crushed-pebble sand, and below the cloudless expanse of blue with its blinding yellow sun, the potential for a blood sacrifice at the alter of glory deepened with the shadows on the rocks to the east.

Agamemnon, King of Kings, his position represented by his magnificent arraignment and his splendid armor, spoke in confidence to the older king of Thessaly. They spoke of terms and chance and settled to fight this war in the ways of their ancestors. It was true that Agamemnon could not be mistaken for anything but what he was, what he'd become as his lust for all things powerful grew into an obsessive hunger- however he was no fool when it came to the acquisition of his conquests.

"Boagrius!"

Spears were slammed against shields and the men lined hundreds deep roared as their champion distinguished himself, scars and all. The Thessalian king seemed pleased with himself, his pale eyes and smirking lips barely suppressing the glee of his belief in the superiority of his man.

Agamemnon nodded as if to concede that this Boagrius was indeed a sight to strike fear in the heart of any warrior, but what seemed his natural arrogance wasn't about to fail him now.

He turned his head and bellowed, "Achilles!"

His call to arms was met with silence. There was no flash of blond hair or polished armor in the oppressive sun. The inpatients of the horses and the given sounds of creaking leather, scraping metal, and harsh collective breathing of an army at rest filled the flat plain and swelled in the absence of the cheers that had just echoed across it.

Several steps behind the dueling kings, the generals and advisors of both sides of the conflict observed the events and temperaments of the two rulers and their soldiers, shielding their eyes from the sun as they did their best to plan for the worst.

Nervous titters of laughter peppered the defending army as the Greek champion remained unseen. With mocking graciousness, the king of Thessaly comforted, "Boagrius has this effect on many heroes."

Agamemnon sneered. "Careful who you insult old king."

A rider sweating heavily beneath his armor pulled his horse short of his liege lord, his head bowed as he reported, "My king, Achilles is not with the army.""Where is he!"

"I sent a-a boy to look for him." He abased himself as low as he could upon his horse, adding belatedly, "My lord."

The wait was long and the day grew warmer, baking those with more armor and burning those with less. Many found themselves blinded if they raised their eyes; the glare of weapons, armor, and the sun itself collecting around the glittering throng. Here, death was temporarily put on hold to await a single man, the greatest single bringer of death in generations.

Hours later, when it suited the absent warrior to join them, the men gave way as Achilles the Invulnerable rode through them and to the field of battle. Cries of "Achilles, Achilles, Achilles!" were taken up by the Greeks, who spared no praise for their own hero.

Agamemnon wetted his lips as he met the eyes across the distance of his rival, sparing him a black smile before turning back to his business.

His boots firm in the sand, his spear and circular shield in hand, he stalked with a grace that spoke of muscles in places normal men did not have them, passed the huddle of heat-flushed man and two-horse chariots.

"Perhaps we should have our war tomorrow, when you are better rested." Agamemnon provoked the passing man. "I should have you whipped for you impudence!"

"Perhaps you should fight him."

The golden lion, his bright eyes hard and glittering with a sort of insane boredom, turned to remove himself from the grainy field.

"Achilles," pleaded one general as Agamemnon caressed his pride and Achilles gave his back. "Achilles, Achilles!"

In respect for the older general who had many times shown him self to be wise and fair, Achilles paused and listened though his face was impassive and hidden beneath his harsh cut of his helmet.

The general began to speak twice but held his tongue until he was sure it was concern, not desperation, which guided his words. "Look at the men's faces. You can save hundreds of them. You can end this war with a swing of your sword. Let them go home to their wives."

Behind them, Agamemnon was shaking his head, thoughts of his due, his frustration, his inability to understand how this route of persuasion could possibly yield results from cold blooded Achilles.

From the silence the scrape of a wooden shaft thrilled through the dry, thick air. As Achilles gripped his spear and weighed it in his palm, shifting its balance, he spoke with a gravelly purr. He did not spare even a flicker of his blue eyes for anyone, leaving the statement open and impersonal.

"Imagine a king who fights his own battles." His spear wavered in the sand as Achilles walked away, leaving the point buried in the white earth. "Wouldn't that be a sight."

The King of Kings watched the man glide away in a hum of temper and disgust. His voice quiet, Agamemnon reflected, "Of all the warlords loved by the gods, I hate him the most."

With the gathered army of Greece behind him, like a forest of glimmer spears, Achilles drew his sword with a flick of his wrist. Every man with eyes to see him held their breath as the metallic zing rebounded between the two armies.

Boagrius twitched in what was clearly anticipation. His hard, scored features, reddened and weathered, contorted as he turned to his shield brothers and threw up his arms, roaring like a wild beast. This instigated a near riot among the men who took back the strength they'd lost at the terrifying sight of golden Achilles. This man, their champion, was a monster, pitted and nearly naked but for a striped red and brown loincloth, he displayed for all to see his history of triumph.

As the giant turned back his chest was heaving, his muscles rippled, his blood rushed within him so fast and hard that his pulse pounded beneath his skin, and his eyes narrowed against the sun to focus on his mark, his enemy. His victim.

With the first spear, Achilles sacrificed his shield, his stride unbroken. The second spear passed over Achilles and broke on the white sand. Close enough now to smell the reek of sweat from the man and see the muddy trails left by fresh sweat on his chest; Achilles met Boagrius's eyes as the savage of a man drew his sword. Switching course with divine speed and precision, Achilles thrust his sword between the neck and shoulder of his opponent, withdrawing and walking several steps before the man at his back stumbled, dropped to his knees, and fell forward. The last thing Boagrius's eyes did see before they closed forever was a world of white rushing up to meet him.

Victorious, but in defiance of that victory, Achilles stalked the front lines of the Thessalian's. The cheers of the Greek's were white noise to him as he paced the cowed ranks. Sharp eyes searched for one soul courageous enough to stand and fight him, to defend the honor of his brothers, his family, and his country. When no man moved to taken him on he raged, "Is their no one else?"

"**IS THEIR NO ONE ELSE**?" It seemed to anger him to the point of passion when all held their silence. He marched the line again, his boots stirring the blood dripping from his sword with the gravel into pink mud. His very stance dared any brave or impetuous soul to their death.

To his side stepped the king of Thessaly. "Who are you soldier?"

Defeat had shattered this king, broken him in some unspeakable way that could be seen with the eyes but not understood by the mind. A familiar tightening around his eyes and mouth and a distinct lack of pride and entitlement in those gray eyes gave his creased, weary face a look of humility that Achilles had seen far too often of late. There were no delusions in the eyes that met Achilles' with a question.

His answer: "Achilles, son of Peleus."

"Achilles? I'll remember the name. The ruler of Thessaly carries this scepter." He took another step forward and held out the emblem. "Give it to your king."

Achilles turned away in disinterest saying, "He's not my king."

"If not for your king, then who did you fight for?" The monarch inquired to his back.

He didn't turn, and too soft for even the wind to catch Achilles the lion whispered his reason for all, "Alexandros."

TBC...

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	2. The Shepard

**THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.**

Chapter Two: The Shepard

The toast, "Brothers in arms!" was chanted back by a chorus of good natured officers, generals, and distinguished soldiers in an adjoining room, followed by a round of rowdy calls for "Friendship!".

"Princes of Troy," Menelaus stood and opened his arms grandly, his cheeks already stained from his consumption of wine. It was enough of a spectacle to draw the reluctant attention of one especially beautiful boy away from his enraptured study of the full plate before him. Distant, dark eyes lifted and settled on the richly dressed host of the evening, King Menelaus of Sparta, brother of King Agamemnon and husband of Helen the Fair.

"On our last night together," he continued, "Queen Helen and I salute you." The king bowed his head as others at the table, both Trojan and Spartan, applauded and laughed, banging cups together as they drank in praise of every other word.

"We've had out conflicts before, it's true. We fought many battles, Sparta and Troy." The powerful man lifted his fist and thumped it on his chest proclaiming, "And fought well!"

More cheers and raised cups, more fists of flesh slammed against wood.

"But I have always respected your father. Priam is a good king, a good man. I respected him as an adversary. I respect him now as my ally."

The throng of nobles and distinguished guests from both sides of the sea raised their voices until the youth could barely hear him self think.

"Hector, Paris, young princes, come. Stand. Drink with me." Menelaus invited magnanimously. Paris, silent and overwhelmed, stood as his brother did with a gaudy gold cup clutched too tightly in his white-knuckled grip. "Let us drink to peace."

"To peace," Hector intoned sincerely, raising his cup to the king. "Between Troy and Sparta."

"May the gods keep the wolves in the hills and the women in our beds!" Menelaus blessed the table, draining his cup in a single gulp. From there the drunken revelry escalated and decorum and propriety diminished. Dancing girls wearing the ransom of kingdoms around their slender necks, with painted faces and sheer beaded skirts, followed the sultry piping of the music into the feasting room. They draped themselves around any man who looked twice while the wine-oh the wine! - sloshed from jug to cup more times than even the Gods themselves could count.

Standing suddenly, the beautiful boy, Paris by name, fled the chaos and perfumed heat of the hall, his brown eyes glossy with fever. Taking the labyrinth at a stumbling run, the tortured prince felt his way passed bewildered servants in search of some quiet place to calm his tripping heart. Moaning wretchedly in frustration after a dozen minutes of aimless wandering- all of the walls in the stone palace looked the same- Paris threw himself blindly through a promising red-curtained door way. His momentum propelled his slight body and he just caught himself against the stone rail of the balcony before he toppled over the edge. His torso pressed against the carved and detailed yellow-brown stone, Paris stared down at the swell of a thunderous gray wave as it hurled itself against the cliffs below, much like he had just done to himself.

In the distance, muffled and indistinct, he could still hear them, all of them.

Sobbing, Paris slid down to his knees, his head bowed and pressed to the cool stone, his impossibly exquisite face turned and hidden beneath his wild curls. The bobs and beads and braids that had come undone in his manic rush to escape and then his sudden halt, now bit into the golden skin of his knees and ankles as he ground them into the floor. Gasping for air, Paris fought valiantly within himself to put this anguish back in the Pandora's Box it had broken out of but, but, but…

He gagged and coughed while his head swirled and ached as if he'd drunk ten times more than the half cup he'd daintily sipped at through the evening. Hector had cautioned him in the beginning that drink was all good and well… in moderation. As with all things, he'd added, smoothing Paris's curls with a strong, calloused hand so like those of his lover. Golden hair replaced dark brown, dark eyes faded into blue eyes, and those hands upon his body… Paris whimpered as he shook his head, tears sliding down his cheeks. He was unable to stop them; the more he tried, the faster they fell. He gave in and took a deep breath…

"Noooo…!" Paris wailed.

The wind smelled of the sea! Salt and brine and all the things that belonged to Poseidon and every waver-tamer, fish monger, and sailor held dear. But wave-tamer, fish monger, sailor, he was none of those men. He was Alexandros. A Shepard and best loved of all in his homely little valley. He was king of his hill and sovereign of his herd. His life was simple, fulfilling, and quiet. His lover had promised a place with him in Larissa come the spring. Perfect was the life of Alexandros the Shepard until…

"I hate this life. I want to go home. I want to go home, home, home, home, _home_!"

"Paris?"

Alarmed, Paris/Alexandros lifted his tear stained face, his trembling lips, and pale face to the intruder. "What…?"

TBC...

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	3. To Kiss Apollo

**THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.**

Chapter Three: To Kiss Apollo

A shrill hellish scream silenced the chatter and familial camaraderie of the seven brothers as they walked the marble halls from the practice courts beyond to lesser dining hall.

In the thrown room, King Priam of Troy rose slowly. His watery twin rippling gently in the reflecting pool at his feet, the weary man in blue and white, with silver set with precious stones about his neck and wrists, gestured for calm. The counsel, numbering twenty and the king, remained seated but no sooner had the shrieking curdled than whispers and questions began to bubble from the lips of the politicians. "Guards!"

A plate bare but for crumbs and a few grapes was set aside as a lovely women dressed in a robe of lavender and gold settled herself among her ladies for an evening of quiet talk and gossip among friends. As the smiling women was lifting a goblet of watered wine to her lips, laughing engagingly at a bit of tall tale from a younger lady in pink and rice white, Hecabe, startled as the hysterical screaming reached her, louder and closer than to any other because she knew that voice, knew that agonizing wail as if it were her own.

The spilled wine and the clattering of the cup on the floor jarred the ladies, making three jump, but Hecabe was already on her feet and through the doors. In a flutter of silks and fine jewels, the Queen of Troy ran to the door at the end of the hall.

When the horrifying cries died and the sounds of futile destruction began, a young servant girl hiding huddled beneath the bed, the only piece of furniture to escape the wrathful creature stalking the room, curled in on her self. Madness had struck the house of Priam for certain.

TBC…

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	4. Taming Fragility

**THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.**

Chapter Four: Taming Fragility

"My prince?"

Dizzy with sorrow and gulping down air around his sobs, Paris/Alexandros lowered his damp lashes, thinking his heartache and suffering was at last complete. Visions and voices now, he mourned, his insanity was indeed complete. In a swell of misery, the young beauty drew himself to his feet, swaying there between the sea and his imagined friend, Paris/Alexandros laughed with the gulls circling overhead, cawing and crying.

The sun, hot and steeped in floral colors, shadowed his high cheekbones and reddened his eyes and swollen lips. Looking reluctantly to the tall, dark, ever loyal watchman standing poised and wary before the backdrop of the billowing red curtain, the former Shepard moved out his tremulous hand. "I know you, shade; I know the form you steal. Leave me to my hell and torment me no longer!"

When the man stepped forward instead of back, Paris/Alexandros rushed him, slamming his fists against the scuffed black leather armor and the roped upper-arm muscles nicked with scars and mottled bruises. Furious little sounds mewled from the prince as he fought and struggled against the firm, gentle arms that bound him loosely.

"Peace Alexandros, peace I say!"

The boy stilled.

"Ale-Alexandros? You call me Alexandros?"

The man nodded, his thin dark hair falling across his brow. "Aye, I call you Alexandros, beloved of my lord. I tell you I come baring his words."

Shuddering thoroughly, Paris/Alexandros bit his lower lip till it bled as he gazed distantly at the armored chest level with his misty eyes. Minutes passed, the waves rushed, crashed, and receded, the ruckus party continued beyond the curtain, and slowly, ever so slowly, the seraphic boy began to calm. Lifting his hand, the prince ignored the thick trail of warm red that trickled down his chin from his torn lip, intent on seeking his proof.

As his slender fingers molded to the large nose, broad forehead, rounded eyes, and pointed chin beneath a wiry black beard, the man carefully lifted his own large hands to the narrower shoulders of the prince.

A dreamy smile smoothed the youthful features until a mantle of peace descended. "Eudorus," Alexandros murmured softly. His eyes fluttered open with a radiant, beaming smile of remembering.

"Eudorus." He said more firmly. Eudorus smiled back.

Blushing furiously, Alexandros ducked his head, peaking up into the blue eyes regarding him closely.

Of a sudden, the big man began to chuckle, then laugh, then whoop as he bent double, his amusement growing by the minute. Confused, Alexandros frowned. "What sickness has taken you, Eudorus?"

The man just laughed harder, clutching his belly and closing his eyes.

"What is so amusing? Eudorus?" Alexandros looked at the guffawing Myrmidon and smiled as if willing to join in if he would only explain the joke. After a minute, Alexandros straightened, smoothed down his robes with the quiet pride and dignity of a little prince, balled up his fist and promptly punched the burly soldier as hard as he could in the mans bicep. That bit of spirit sobered Eudorus in the slightest.

Rubbing a hand over his face and grinning, he reached out to squeeze Alexandros's shoulder with one hand and wipe the dibbling blood from his chin with the other. "There now, that is the man who has tamed Achilles!"

Dripping with grease from the shredded fowl on his plate, his lips and neck damp and sticky with sloshed wine, King Menelaus leaned over on his arm to speak around the bosom slut on his lap.

"Hector! Hector!" the king rumbled, "Why so virtuous, tonight, lad? Drink, drink, drink! Find a pretty girl, take a pretty boy, have your fun while you may and never regret it!" Shoving his hand beneath the slave girls skirt, Menelaus roared with laughter as she wriggled on his lap, hiding her face that was red with shame and indignity behind a tumble of oiled hair.

Cheering loudly, Menelaus proclaimed with a tip of his cup, "For the Gods!"

Saluting with his cup, Hector followed suit, "For the Gods!"

Separating him self with a few diplomatic turns of phrase, the eldest prince of Troy found an empty seat from which he could watch the entire room. He found himself caught up in study of a serpent-like beauty with dark eyes and dark skin, her arms, legs, and belly painted with thick red lines and symbols spelling enchantments for pleasure and release. The bells and charms woven through her black hair tinkered and jingled as she shimmied and paraded herself before lords and kings as though she were Aphrodite herself come to grace them.

This entire affair, the words of peace and praise, were lies, pretty lies, true, but lies all the same. Agamemnon desired war with a will that rivaled Ares own. War with everyone and anyone so long as the conquest would deliver to him some sort of booty, be it glory, gold, or slaves. It was a simple matter of deduction in the matter of who was next to weather the wrath of the King of Kings. Across the Aegean Sea in Troy, his home and inheritance, his curse and his blessing, his life and his duty, the seat of his family, Hector had already sent word to prepare for war. When Agamemnon's greedy eye finally turned across the waters, Hector was steadfast that _his_ city would not fall, not even should Apollo avert his All Seeing Eyes, or Zeus himself curse the very walls to crumble. Agamemnon yearned in his twisted dreams for the keys to Troy, and his Menelaus would be on his heels, ready to deploy troops and ships at his call, treaties be damned. A man without honor cannot give his word and so, any contracts refined here in these halls of debauchery were void in the eyes of man and the Gods.

The dances of politics, Hector had tried to explain to Paris during their voyage to Sparta when the inquisitive youth had asked why their enemy would honor them in his house on the eve of war, follow a music of mood rather than music. Paris had shaken his head and leaned against the rail, sighing heavily. "I will never understand this," he'd whispered. Hector had petted his curls but hadn't answered.

As a golden tray passed, balanced on the arm of a young servant girl, fifteen summers and not a day older, Hector unburdened himself of his cup while it was still half full with a last lip-wetting sip, feeling safer observing the adage 'Finer safe than sorry the day after'. In all his years the call of some inner sense more real and true to him than what some might call 'common sense', had never failed him and, since the beginning of the evening, it had been screaming at him that something was wrong beyond him, not well.

Deciding that it was time to retire, Hector scoured the many drunken lords and court whores, the incense and the stifling heat, for a mop of coy brown curls. After several circuits of the room yielded not a hint of his brother's innocent face, Hector stopped a passing servant shortly and asked if the girl had seen him. She directed him down a wide hall but beyond that she could not say. Nodding his thanks, Hector excused himself to find his wayward brother. As he stalked the halls, halting several maidservants for questioning along the way, Hector stood before a wind teased red curtain that an old nursemaid had seen Paris enter sometime before, shortly followed thereafter by another man the old mother had described as a "ruffian".

Of all the cruelty he'd witnessed and provoked, the blood he'd shed and the lives he'd ended, Hector the Tamer of Horses had never been as consumed by guilt nor harbored it for longer, than he had when he woke up one comfortably warm, clear day to the black news that in the new baby brother he'd just met and already adored like no other had been take in the night to a hillside and to his death.

Turning a corner, Hector growled at a servant for word of Paris, his natural serenity bled away to the dark memories he relived far too often as was.

For the seven days Paris knew mother, father, home, and safety, Cassandra had raved and ranted, demanded and screamed that the swaddled infant in the arms of the wet nurse was a curse, a demon, the very bane of Troy come to visit upon them war and death! Paris's birth was the beginning of Troy's end if they did not kill him immediately! That Paris, a tiny, peach-skinned, exceptionally beautiful baby with a sweet, quiet disposition so unlike the three rowdy brothers come before him, could possibly topple the greatest city this side of the Aegean… The youth that Hector had been, all of his eleven years wise, could hardly reconcile such a terrible and foreboding prophecy with the sleepy, cooing infant Ganymede his mother had allowed him to hold on his own late that same evening.

The fraternal, almost paternal, bond Hector had cemented with his youngest brother in those seven days had wound back to strangle his heart when the news of Paris's abandonment on Mount Ida had finally been broken to the gathered family. Hecabe had not been present for the revelation. Locked in her rooms to mourn in private, the Queen did not resurface for many months, frailer and with more shadows in her eyes than there had been, but she resumed her duties quietly. In the years to follow, Hector knew that he had shunned Cassandra to the point of leaving a room if she entered and refraining from speaking to her for months at a time. It wasn't that he blamed her but her very presence was a living reminder of his own weakness…

Until the day of the games when a certain Shepard had come before the royal family demanding his families prized bull be returned to him, Hector had never known such a burst of pride for another.

Ruffian, was it, that stalked his brothers steps like a shadow in the night. The prince of Troy had killed men for less.

Hand on his sword, flexing until his knuckles were white with the strain, Hector threw back the curtain.

TBC…

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	5. Who Loves, Fears

**THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.**

Chapter Five: Who Loves, Fears

Odysseus sat back and listened to the hemmed half-truths and blatant lies Agamemnon invented to regale his table, and wondered if any of the nobles gulping wine from bejeweled cups and feasting from gold plates brought to them at the expense of many -young- Greek lives, believed the animated fictions so fervently as their faces expressed. Would Achilles snapping the necks of a few fat landowners add color to the stories? A layer of reality that these stuffed silk lords had paid to avoid?

Sighing to himself at humorlessness of the thought, Odysseus reluctantly put aside the suddenly empty wine jug in his fist and searched the room for some mindless amusement. Memories, while still fresh and red and vivid, were terrible company to keep on nights like this one when a man was truly an island even while surrounded by his own.

Achilles glided past him.

Odysseus sucked in a breath, suppressed a grin, and turned back to Agamemnon's circle. This King of Kings had become careless, not to notice who stalked his halls. The last time the son of Peleus joined the Great King at banquet in Thessaly, after summoning yet another overwhelming victory from the hallowed hands of Fate, a petty disagreement broke out over the flavor of the wine served, it being displeasing to the golden warrior. "Mediocre, nothing more than colored horse piss!" The exact phrasing Achilles had used, if Odysseus recalled correctly. A gaggle of fools in crimson, dressed in the favored color of their liege lord, recounted rumors to the air about bastard children having such a demented sense of reason that honor and civility was obviously beyond them and that brute labor was all they were meant for. Good for dying but not dining with.

Then the blood really flowed.

Two of the more pompous (and drunk) lords ended their night, and their lives, by Achilles sword, the fine room with its art and sculptures stood no chance in the face of his rage, and for months afterward Agamemnon's call to arms was ignored and all emissaries from the king of Greece were dismissed before ever seeing the inside of his fathers halls. It was just another brick in the wall between the King of Kings and the greatest warrior in the world.

The moon was radiant and swollen round in the night sky before Odysseus was able to excuse him self from the naked festivities. While he enjoyed beautiful, nude, amorous women, good, strong wine, and a comfortable couch upon which to enjoy both, the infamous orgies that often broke out at Agamemnon's drinking parties were defiantly not to his taste. They ran as common with stories of rape as bestiality, neither of which appealed to Odysseus. Whores were well and good in their place, as they served their purposes. To be raped and abused was not one of their duties. As it was, the lovely boys filling the cups and beds of Agamemnon's guests as a gesture of his hospitality too often now reminded him of his own boy at home, new born the day he'd left, and the women of his dear, loyal wife, Penelope. In all his years he'd never met a braver women that could boast both great beauty and a sincere heart to her credit.

Where Agamemnon saw these spectacles as examples of his generous spirit and powerful wealth, Odysseus, also a king, saw them for the weaknesses they were. He used the sex and violence to hold the people in thrall, to distract them while he executed his plots. His hold on power was tenuous but he had ambition. One significant defeat could, possibly, spell the end for him. It all came down to too many enemies, not enough friends, and a long history of abuse of power. The slightest suggestion of weakness could be fatal for both Agamemnon and his empire. Call the jackals out with blood and they begin to sniff around for more.

No. No satisfaction would not be found or had in the company of such.

On across the high grass meadow, on the far side, Odysseus could see the welcoming orange glow of the fires and the round silhouettes of the black tents. The Myrmidon camp, secluded from the tents of the Greeks and Allied Forces, was clean and modest as a standard. Efficiency and practicality rather than excess and decadence ruled the routines here. Several of Achilles men were gathered around a central fire, telling tales and sharing bowls of fruit and olives, and tearing bits of meat from the three roasted rabbits spitted above the fire.

Moving with a hunter's caution, Odysseus followed the ribbon of chilled air left by Achilles' passing as if it were a tangible thing. The sentry on duty, a man senior in age to him by at least twenty years nodded as he passed, recognizing him after a moment in the moonshine. Achilles stood in the middle of the meadow, yards away from the laughter and good spirits of the fire, his face raised to the night sky while the delicate breeze riffled his blond hair.

Not a twig or pebble gave under his foot but Achilles turned to him nonetheless.

Odysseus hesitated. He knew what that possessed, glazed look in Achilles's eyes meant, remembered only too well what had happened in battle when that look took him and that tender, murderous smile hardened his cool beauty for mere seconds before the spray of blood from a severed neck masked the strong features. Nothing, and no one, was safe when Achilles was in this mood. Zeus be with him, but it was what made dancing with Achilles the Invulnerable fun.

Straightening his shoulders and smiling his own lazy, arrogant smile, the one he knew would gall Achilles right, Odysseus moved forward through the waist level grass, crossing his arms loosely. "I'd compliment the loveliness of the night and the beauty of the plentiful stars if I thought for one moment your eyes saw what was before them."

Achilles did not speak, staring at him with an inscrutable expression. Taking the silence for an agreement (as was his way when he wanted to be getting on with a conversation), Odysseus asked wickedly, "Drunk any good wines lately?"

Achilles smile thawed. "That you'd appreciate, no." He raised an eyebrow and studied him speculatively. "You're far from the revelry, and a full cup. What form of possession guided you to my camp, king Odysseus?"

"Love. Regret. Morality. Loneliness. Boredom. All the ills that commonly befall great men such as my self. I admit that you, my friend, are an embodiment of distraction. You live as if you will lose everything tomorrow. It's fascinating to me how you move through a situation possessing such confidence that you invoke in others a feeling of similar strength. Invulnerable they call you, Achilles, a name to fit your legend and I do believe you've taken it to heart. You've got nothing you cherish so much that you can't stand to lose it. You live without regrets and in that Achilles, I find I envy you."

"You," Achilles chuckled, "feel envy? I thought you were the perfect meeting of mind, body, and spirit? Clever as a fox, handsome as a god, and pure as the new fallen snow. The Great Odysseus of Ithaca; virile, wise, strong, and brave, kind and benevolent as the spring is fair. Worthy of every acola-"

"And the poets say Achilles has no sense of humor!"

"Humor? I but speak the truth! Truth I've heard many a'time from your own lips."

"Heartless! You are truly a beast to mock a man's vanity, especially one as tender as I!"

"Tender? So tender is it now, old fox?"

"Wouldn't you know it! One of us must be tamed and gentle, and it is either Penelope or I!"

The two men shared a long, hard laugh and it felt good, smoothing some of the tension between them.

Odysseus sobered first. "I was right though, wasn't I?"

Achilles turned his face away, giving the other man the elegant line of his back.

"I was."

"I cherish nothing so much that I can't stand to lose it, you say?" The words were spoken softly on the wind, and only because of a small breeze flowing in his direction did he hear the beginning of the confession at all.

"I love. There is nothing so loyal as love. Nothing so distracting."

"Yes, because it demands all. I understand now, what I saw in your eyes."

Achilles threw back his head and laughed but it was not a happy sound. "You know? You think you know."

"I suppose, this is true," Odysseus amended, stepping forward looking out over his friends shoulder at the silver cast poured upon the grass and shining on the dark leaves of the trees further in the distance. The perfect calm of the meadow was suddenly very evident as the grass swayed and their clothes were teased around their bodies. "I have seen hate in your eyes and this look is just as strong, and as devout."

When Achilles refused to respond, Odysseus continued quietly.

"The betrayal I fear I will always be forsworn for, no matter if I should live forever to atone, is the abandonment of my family and for that I hate Agamemnon more than, I think, even you."

"Intrusive bastard," Achilles muttered, shaking his head at the ground. "But of all the kings, I respect you the most."

"I know."

"Then listen as I tell you now, because I trust you, that the Invulnerable Achilles loves and that for that love, even glory and greatness must wait."

TBC…

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	6. Daughter of Blood

**THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I.**

Chapter Six:Daughter of Blood

Hecabe threw herself to the floor before the screaming women beating her bloody fists against the white marble. She reached out and cupped the sides of the young women's head, stilling her furious rocking and forcing her rolling, feral blue eyes to settle. As the young women murmured and burbled, tears running hot and fast down her swollen red cheeks, the Queen whispered in horror, "What have you see, Cassandra? What vision has the All Seeing Apollo bequeathed upon you, daughter-mine?"

Cassandra laughed but the harsh sound cracked and hissed in the back of her throat as her burning eyes fluttered briefly. "Seen?" She croaked, elongating the sound of each letter as if she were tasting the letters to divine there meaning. "Apollo has seen." She began to cackle again.

"Cassandra, dearest, please listen to me-"

"Cassandra!" bellowed Priam as the doors were swept open by silent servants to admit him. The disheveled girl hid her head behind the crinkled, knotted mess of brown-blond curls. The rocking resumed.

Hecabe stood, her hands held out in supplication and her lips ready to speak but Priam silenced her with a dark, decided look. With tears in her eyes the Queen fell back to her knees and fretfully petted her daughters tangled hair. The delicate pink and gold gown was rendered to tattered bits of cloth clinging to her trembling body by threads and the indecent position of her legs seemed unimportant to the crazed princess, but to the father and king that stared down at her, it did not go so unnoticed.

"She's having her fits again." It wasn't a question. Hecabe answered desperately.

"They're not fits, my lord! The god Apollo has given Cassandra a vision of the futu-"

"Of the future that we would all benefit from hearing." Priam finished for her. "Yes, yes, we've heard of her 'vision's' before, have we not, wife? It was her visions that nearly cost us our last born son! I have heard nothing of any substance that would lead me to believe that these fits of hers surrender anything other than twisted delusions that speak of a troubled mind. I have had enough of these disturbances in my household, Hecabe. I am passed all patience!"

Hecabe opened her mouth to defend her daughter but once again Priam spoke over her. Behind him, his seven sons and three other daughters were packed tightly together in the doorway, their faces running the gamut of emotions. Cassandra herself seemed unaware of the proceedings taking part on her behalf, whispering and babbling every few moments about "fire and smoke, black, black smoke" and "screaming women run and run and then they fall, so hard". Her injured hands left bright red smears across her thighs, face, in her hair, and across the front of her mothers fine dress.

"She has gone insane, driven mad by her own need for attention. She will be taken to the cell and kept there until a home can be made for her beyond the city, with a nurse to care for her." Glancing once more at his daughters pale, splotchy face and bloody state of undress, Priam added, "Far from me," then left the room.

Priam never saw Cassandra again.

TBC…

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	7. Peace Be

Chapter Seven:Peace Be...

"-certain your leaving the harbor will go unnoticed?"  
"All is well, young one." Eudorus chucked him under the chin as you would a child. "Rest your thoughts."  
Alexandros shook his wind swept curls and turned to lean heavily against the railing, his troubled, expressive brown eyes drinking in the lapping indigo shadows of the sea, savoring the coolness dusk left hanging across the cliffs. He watched the sun set, unable to find a name for the cause of his nervousness. Whatever it was, it was coming over the horizon with the sun.  
A southern breeze tightened his clothing to his slender body and rippled goose-pimples across his golden skin. Closing dark eyes and taking a deep, even breath, Alexandros fidgeted for a moment in indecision. "Curses take it," he whispered fiercely.  
Turning back to Eudorus, Alexandros twisted a ring from his finger and held it out. "Here. Take this to Achilles, with all my love." Just shy of the ring Alexandros yanked back his hand, hastily bringing it to his lips and kissing it lovingly before averting his face and passing away the pearl band. "There. Tell him loyalty knows nothing of wisdom, love even less and that is why I trust it. Tell him that for me."  
Behind the young princes back, Eudorus saluted him with a fist over his heart and solemn bow before disappearing through the curtain. In the hall, Eudorus tucked away the priceless trinket and looked up and down the hall. Prince Hector was tucked into a corner talking quietly with king Menelaus. The words seemed heated and neither man's face wore the court-fashioned blankness the Myrmidon was so used to seeing. Snapping the hood of his black wool cloak over his face, Eudorus glided silently down the hall, keeping to the shadows and little used doors.

Agamemnon, King of Kings, traced the darkly inked curves of Greece's eastern shores on the map spread out on the table before him. Two solid gold figures of naked sea nymphs frolicking through painted waves held down the curling ends. The room in which the king lounged was lavish and dim with gray smoke that was thick and heavy in the lungs. The silk covered chairs and couches were a shade of green that lustful envy would be had it an expression, with colorful, imported tapestries depicting war and conquest were woven and hung on every available wall. One was commissioned for each city made to heel. Bobbles and offerings in tribute to his greatness filled every table space with some scattered carelessly on the floor like child's toys. Treasured heirlooms from family's centuries old were not shown the least respect- for history or craftsmanship. They simply gathered dust and represented the waste of war and Agamemnon's greed for more of it.  
The thick finger sparkled with a ruby the size of a large olive. When the wandering digit finally settled, Agamemnon gave a rather satisfied sigh, lifting a cup of his strongest, darkest wine to his lips. Wiping the ripe wetness with the back of his hand, the king of all Greece nodded his head and tapped the page decisively.  
"Tirigen!" He bellowed, tipping his cup again.  
A page boy entered, twelve summers and winters by his form but ten if judged honestly by his face, his wheat-blond head bowed respectively. The boy, Tirigen, waited patiently for further instructions, not daring to speak.  
It was a full minute before Agamemnon acknowledged him but his flashing, calculative eyes remained fastened on the page. "More wine!" The boy bobbed and fled from the oppressive heat and spicy scent of the room.  
Reclining back, Agamemnon studied the square mark scaring his broad vision for the future of the powers of the Aegean. The symbol for the great golden city seemed to mock him, taunting him from across the page. Alone with only his suspicions, plots, and personal paranoia to sooth his compulsion for war mongering, the kings anger and frustration simmered. When the boy returned baring an ordered tray of wine, candied figs, bread, and honeyed dates, Agamemnon knocked the tray aside with a great clatter and drew the boy by his arm onto his lap, tearing his chiton from his slender shoulders.  
"For Troy!" He laughed before he threw the screaming boy onto the table and the map.

TBC...  
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	8. Noble Forgiveness, Beloved

Chapter Eight: Noble Forgiveness, Beloved.

"Achilles…" beckoned the husky whisper from parted, moist pink lips. Amongst beaded pillows, quilts, and dazzlingly bright blankets dyed in selections of gold, red, orange, and deep dark blue, Alexandros of Mount Ida wallowed in the feel of the silk sheets against his aroused flesh; the smooth hush of the delicate material gliding teasingly across his golden, warm bare skin. The rich, liquid brown of his eyes twinkled playfully bellow the shadows of his black lashes, made thicker and darker by the intense wicked glow of the large fire burning brightly in the hearth across from the bed.  
Sometime during the night in had begun to rain, fast and hard. The drumming acoustics lulled the youth into a sleepy, dulled state where sweet dreams blended with vague, half-present reality. His fears and concerns were forgotten, dimmed like the gradual intensity and heat of the fire as it smoldered in the hearth. He was safe for the moment, curled behind four sheer crimson veils that softened the grandness of his accommodations.  
Alexandros dreamed of his lover. In the arms of Achilles was the safest place in all the world. No king or commander could touch him there, no duty or demand could make him leave; in the arms of his beloved he found both a shelter and a champion, and acceptance without expectation or misconception. It was always warm and he felt no need to be brave or strong on his own, just a will to be himself, a treasured secret that was becoming lost even as he struggled to reclaim it. Paris had never existed and there were no wars to summon his lover away.  
He dreamt of the sun drenched grove near the greenest pasture with the sweetest grass, at the foot of Mount Ida where he would laze in the shade on hot, drowsy afternoons. He would swim in the river near the tall bushes and run back to his favorite pear tree to sun himself dry and nibble fallen fruit, his eyes seeing blue sky and white clouds through the branches and leaves but his heart and his hand knowing only the pleasure of needy blue eyes as they stared down and calloused, strong hands as they caressed him. His own hand would have to suffice but in his fantasies, oh in his most delicious dreams…  
A small, winsome whimper escaped the shivering prince throat and faded into a blood red pillow with golden tassels beneath his head. Guided by the lustful, loving direction of his phantom Achilles, so beautiful in the becoming glow of the imagined sun, the sinfully needy youth ground his dripping erection into the layered bedding, rocking his hips desperately. "Achilles," he mewled helplessly, "please, beloved, oh please!"  
Just as his lover was about to pierce him with his oiled cock, something too firm, too real, and out of place intruded on the precious moment of their joining, shattering the inner landscape irreparably.  
Groggy and confused, bleary brown eyes fluttered and opened as rough, ringed hands bruised his bare arms and a wide, heavy body forced the startled prince deeper against the feathered mattress. Shaking away his mussed curls, cheek turned into the fine silks at a painful angle, Alexandros cried out in horror. He bucked and reared, scrambled to scratch and kick, but for all he was pinned; crushed into the blankets like a brown flower beneath a travelers boot heel.  
His heart thundered in his ears, on his tongue, rising bile in his throat which he struggled not to choke himself on. He could not flee from this, trapped as he was. In his mind he knew he was helpless but his body's instinct was irrepressible. He had to stop this. He was for Achilles and Achilles alone. This was not right. No one else must touch him. He. Had. To. Get. Away.  
"Nooo," Alexandros wailed into a blue sheet. "I don-don't wan-want… I don't want you. Stop this!"  
The man above him chortled loudly. "It doesn't matter what you want, boy. My pleasure is not dependent upon yours," mocked the gruff voice again. "Indeed, I find your rebellion to be only too rousing, pretty one."  
Crying silent tears, Alexandros chanted, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" while his heart begged, "forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness!" from a man miles away, across seas and land, who would never know until it was too late how sullied Alexandros had become. Too sullied to love? He was still keening into the expensive bedding when the oppressive weight was torn from his body, and kinder, gentler hands soothed his numb skin. Alexandros remained still and staring beyond the crimson-hued wall, envisioning a golden warrior stripped and waiting for him in the sun. 

TBC...  
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	9. Damnable Heresies

Chapter Nine: Damnable Heresies

Eudorus sailed with the morning, back to his lord who rested with friends in Phtia. Knowing lord Achilles as he did, he knew that at this moment his lord was already from bed and discovering the new patterns of sunlight glancing off the waters and the bright shade of blue vaulted above the rocky coastline. He would be fed and dressed while his men were cloistered away with their spouses or lovers in warm, firm beds. Those piercing blue eyes would be cast out to sea, searching, full of yearning for one beautiful, radiant boy beyond his reach.  
Poised at the helm, taking his rest after a long turn at the oars, Eudorus wiped the sweat from his brow while his body shivered beneath the chilling memory of a similarly sunny morning, what felt like an age ago. Achilles had been jovial, humorous, and companionable with a ready smile and clever wit for two weeks as they cut through the water to what had become a familiar stretch of pebbled shore. The sand was dark and packed tightly, one had to beware of jagged rocks that hid with wicked-sharp just below the wet sand, but Achilles had jumped from the ship and jogged the miles of country side, fields, and rolling hills as if he were as fleet of foot as Hermes the Messenger. Only Eudorus had taken on the pace with him from the first step. The other men, ten in number had Achilles chosen to accompany him this time, tied the boat and secured the area, as a rule.  
When they arrived to news and proof of loss, only Eudorus himself had been witness to the beast-like, destructive, heart-breaking rage that had reverted the proud warrior, man, into a blood thirsty, confused animal.  
Achilles swore and threatened the old man and his goats that lived alone in his home that had gone to ruin. A lovely home once shared with a sweet faced boy, the reason for their journey.   
"Where is he old man? I mean for you to tell me while you still have a tongue in your head!" His promises and accusations had gotten darker and more graphic from that point forward.  
The old man, father of a lost son, only cried without tears as he stared at an empty bed covered by a cold many-times-mended quilt. His silence seemed to incense Achilles to the point of utter insanity. Drawing his sword in a fit of such madness, his muscles straining and his face contorted with the rawness of a pain like he had never known, Achilles sought to drive the polished point into the old bastard's lung. He desired with all the brutal lust in him to watch him die a slow, well-deserved death in a pool of blood and fluid.  
It was Eudorus who stayed his hand, throwing himself into Achilles with a cry of mercy to stop him from ending the life of one whose murder would destroy the passionate love that gave strength to such unreasoning anger. Achilles roared like a wounded animal when his body stumbled and his blade swung at air. When those wild, queer blue eyes turned on him, burning out from behind twisted ropes of blond hair, in that face at that moment in time, Eudorus made peace with his life. No weapon in battle or storm at sea had ever come so close to killing him dead as that look in his lord's eyes.  
A weak, raspy murmur drew them both back from the very edge.  
Achilles was before the man in a heartbeat. Leaning over him, his strong arms on either side of the slumped form in the chair, the greatest warrior in the world, the son of a goddess and a king, leader of men, abased himself to beg. There was silence for a time. Eudorus held his breath. Then came… "Alexandros. My poor boy."  
The man began to weep again, and in earnest. Achilles reached out and shook him hard. "What about him? What about Alexandros?" He pleaded through clenched teeth, his tormented heart in his voice. Eudorus did not know what outcome to pray for, what explanation to expect, only that if the old fathers answer should be death, neither of them would survive Achilles's grief. Nor would his lord, he predicted.  
"They took him away," the man shook his head in disbelief, his lidless brown eyes rolling frantically. "They took him back, away from me. Gave him no choice, did they." His pale, skeletal face seemed to focus on Achilles briefly before wandering away again. "My poor boy!"  
"Who took him away? Does he live?"  
"My Alexandros is all alone in that big city. So many people, so very many. He knows no one there. My wife is gone and my boy is lost to me. My poor boy. Away in Troy, they've stolen him. Thieves," he hissed suddenly, shrinking back in chair. "Thieves, are they! The king and all his brood- curse them, say's I, the lot of them! They left him on the hill, all alone on the hill, crying he was, but I saved him, my wife and I. Now they've claimed him back. My poor, poor boy."  
Achilles sat down heavily at the old mans feet, staring up at him with a look that might have been horror if he hadn't been so exhausted.  
"The foundling prince? Alexandros?" Eudorus whispered strangely, uncertain his own ears could be trusted.  
Achilles himself was staring about the modest hut as if he'd never seen it before. He crawled on his knees to the deserted bed and pressed his cheek to the soft blanket, breathing deeply the scent of his absent beloved. A single dull tear streaked down the lofty golden cheek before disappearing into his hair. The old man continued to moan and remember and they listened speechless to the tale.  
Alexandros had been born before the gods as Prince Paris of Troy, youngest son of King Priam and Queen Hecabe. Seers, namely the king's middle daughter Cassandra, had sworn by Apollo that the princling would bring about the downfall of Troy. They demanded that the babe be done away with- his life meant the death of them all. Only in his end could their salvation be assured. So the innocent infant prince was abandoned to the elements and animals on Mount Ida. Paris –Alexandros- had been sacrificed on the word of a girl-child. Priam had given his son to the slaughter. Only he didn't die. He was found and taken in by this broken old man and his wife, raised from then on to be a good, honorable, loving boy. It was such a boy that went to the festivities in Troy one year, not so long ago, to demand the return of his family's prized bull that had been wrongfully taken by soldiers as the prize for the games. It was there, before all, that Alexandros was revealed to be none other than the dead babe Prince, grown into a man.  
Eudorus understood now the decay the house had fallen into and the despair this shattered man could not escape. His son had been taken by Troy and its politics and his wife was buried beneath the willow by the river. Alexandros was in Troy, now as Paris, Prince and brother to Hector, son of Priam. It was all surreal enough to numb Eudorus to its divine tragedy.  
On the floor by the bed, a man was reborn with new purpose. Achilles had come to take his lover away to Larisa as he'd promised, to his fathers palace and his own home by the water, but he'd come too late. Fate had had its way with them both.  
With dry eyes, straightened shoulders, and a clenched jaw, Achilles son of Peleus stood to meet his lieutenant's wary eyes. "Go to Troy. Find him. Then come to me in Phtia. I want to know of his health, his friends, his family, I want to know his enemies and the way he spends his days. Everything you can gather is of importance. Make contact with him, but he discreet. Do not be seen."  
Achilles sheathed his sword and turned back to the bed, lifting the blanket and shook it of dust and mites. Moving with that familiar controlled grace once more, a comfort to Eudorus's peace of mind it was to see it, Achilles spread the blanket across the fragile, brittle-boned old man, tucking it in around him. "I will find him well or ruin all the world in his memory. Hold to this and find yourself again, old Shepard. Love cannot be commanded by kings, nor can I."  
Behind his lord, they both left the cottage for the boats.  
Now, on his return, he wondered seriously if heaven and earth would survive the news of what Eudorus had witnessed just before his departure.

TBC…  
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	10. Fear Is Faithless

Chapter Ten: Fear Is Faithless

Wrapped in burnt orange silk and arranged beneath a wealth of warm, soft furs, Paris nestled his chin into the gray pelt of some large beast, his shining nut brown eyes shut tight against the world. Pale as the young prince was when Hector had carried him aboard, a delicate bit of color rouged his cheeks and nose now that he was safe and calmed. On the deck above him heavy-set steps shook the boards and a sharp, precise voice, like a verbal lash of a whip, cracked through the lively night. Orders were being given to row harder, in time, together.  
"Row as one! Come on men, homeward bound we are, now, PULL!"  
From his nest, Paris shivered and tried to sleep as Hector had suggested before they cast off. However, the continuous rocking of the ship upon the waves, the grunts and banter of the men above, and the thunderous footsteps pounding across the floor above him, all conspired to deprive him of his one and only means of escape. In the distant, nebulous realm of dreams Paris could freely and joyously become Alexandros, shedding the fine silks, priceless jewelry, and unearned privilege as he ran into the blinding sunlight, trusting that his minds remembrance of his lover would catch him on the other side of waking. In his beloved Achilles, he trusted with a faith that the gods, had they knowledge of its depth and fervor, would become jealous and envious in their admiration.  
There were no windows to show him the stars he knew filled the skin outside his small, floating room. Distraction was all he could wish for to keep the face of his newest and greatest nightmare at bay. His name, even, had become a jinx upon his bored but fair mood. Menelaus, king of Sparta he was born. Covetous snake, Paris named the man, and by his own actions did he prove to be.  
His years, though few in number, were shortened he was sure by the fight he'd received when he'd thought himself victim to the Spartan kings deranged lusts. The gods be praised that Achilles would never know of his cursed weakness that night. Would his proud, heroic love still find his Paris so beautiful or virtuous should he learn of his near ravishing? He knew in his mind that Menelaus was a warrior with many battles to his credit and was several stones heavier than he, but that meant little to his distressingly guilty heart.  
He could hear his brother stop before his door to speak with the stoic armed guard standing watchful and intent before his door, even though they were aboard a ship full of his trust Trojan men. Since finding him crushed beneath the girth of Menelaus, weeping and struggling, Hector had been beyond dutifully kind to him.  
Since his grand, albeit reluctant, return to Troy and his family-by-blood, Hector had quickly become his favorite from among his seven other brothers. Hector always had time to explain some strange custom of court or correct some breech of etiquette he had unwittingly committed. It had been Hector who, late one night when Paris couldn't sleep for homesickness, had shown him a serene bit of garden near a tower from which you could see all of Troy. Under the glow of the heavens it brought scared Alexandros some bit calm. There, Hector had told him stories about his own childhood, about his wife Andromache and infant son Astaynax, and about some of the glorious places he'd seen.  
Yes, it was blissful sort of ignorance he wished for his beloved warrior from Larisa, and for Hector… Well, he didn't know all of his brother's heart, but for what he understood, he wished his brother peace.  
The ship was bound for Troy. He would have to wait a long while before he could go home.

TBC...  
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	11. One Devil Is Like Another

Chapter Eleven: One Devil Is Like Another

Cassandra bobbed her head to the tune of what Hecabe thought to be some private music but was really the shrillness of screams that only the mad child of Priam could hear. In her mind brave men prayed to the gods for death, for relief, for some end to the pain. Begging their dearest friends to kill them now and end their suffering as blood chokes from their gagging mouths, spilling down their necks in a watery gush crimson spit.  
Rocking perpetually, the mad daughter of Priam stared out ahead of her at the green and white tiled wall, her confused musing whisper soft as if she were confiding to the air. Behind her, her mother talked about this and that, rumor and scandal, marriages and mistresses, new babies and unfortunate deaths. It was somewhere in this ramble of gossip and mild intrigue that Hecabe happened to mention that Hector had sent word ahead that negotiations with Sparta had failed rather horribly for some reason, and that explanations would surface upon his imminent return to Troy.  
The seconds ago calm and serene Cassandra was burned away as a rabid, screaming, violent Cassandra burst up from the bed, knocking over the tray heavy table and throwing herself against the polished walls. Hecabe drew back against the bed, shocked and horrified by this dark turn in her daughter's demeanor. A guard outside could be heard unlocking the door and calling down the hall for aid. Before he managed his swift way in to escort the Queen from the cell and restrain the princess, Hecabe solemnly swore she heard Cassandra whimper pitifully, "Apollo has seen it. I have seen it. Now you will see it."  
As Hecabe ran from the small room, Cassandra keened.

The massive wooden doors of king Agamemnon's audience room were thrown open by impassive guards who knew better than to question the man who swept by them into the hall, wearing such rage on his shoulders like a rancid burden. The nobles dressed in red and black, speaking quietly among stoic statues of solid, gleaming gold fell to a hush as the king's brother, Menelaus of Sparta, marched through to the dais.  
The men he'd shed like a cloak at the doorway crowded there in obedient formation.  
The two kings embraced.  
"I want him back." Menelaus demanded churlishly.  
"Well, of course you do." Agamemnon commiserated. "He's a beautiful boy and untouched I hear."  
"I want him back," the Spartan king ground out, "so that I can ride him until he dies under me, begging me. For this I won't rest till I've burned Troy to the ground. They will not deny ME!"  
"I thought you wanted peace with Troy," Agamemnon crooned, his opulently colorful and beguilingly intricate robe draping down his arms as he reached out to clutch his brother's amiably.  
Menelaus admitted quietly, "I should have listened to you."  
"Peace is for the women… and the weak," the King of Kings imparted, looking from the men waiting impatiently from all corners of the room back to his humbled brother. "Empires are forged by war."  
"All my life, I've stood by your side, fought your enemies. You're the elder, you keep the glory." Menelaus stood back, pulling himself up. "This is the way of the world. But have I ever complained? Have I ever asked you for anything?"  
"Never. You're a man of honor."  
"Will you go to war with me brother?"  
Agamemnon raised his left right hand. Menelaus clasped it in his left, the meeting a grip that sealed their contract. Sparta and Mycenae, and through Agamemnon all of the Greek powers, declared there in the audience hall, war on Troy. Over his brother's shoulder, cold eyes searched the faces of his allies and pawns, tools and impediments, thinking on how easily a few honeyed words, spoken with care at the opportune moment, could so sway his sibling. It near made him ill, thinking that his own blood could be so susceptible to suggestion and a pleasing turn of phrase, even while it served his purpose.  
His brothers demanding cock had paved the way for his own ambitions.  
Menelaus's reasons were prideful, certainly not righteous, but they were all the same when the outcome bore the desired fruit; fruit that he would pluck, ripe and swollen with possibilities. His uncomprehending brother was simply a means to an end. In his eyes, the Princes' had defied him by not allowing him his rut and this affronted his natural sense of entitlement. While morally, Troy had the justice of the God's, victory was predicated not on scruples but the strength of will to take the plotted objective at any cost.  
His brother saw the perceived wrong done him, not what the consequences of retaliation could bring him, and that was why Menelaus would die in the winter of his usefulness and Agamemnon would own the Aegean by years end.

TBC...  
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	12. Even In Evil

Chapter Twelve: Even in Evil…

Eudorus's return had been anticipated and Achilles, surrounded by several Myrmidons, met him on the beech, robed in blue with questions on his tongue. He bid Eudorus tell all he knew, all he'd seen, heard.  
"My Alexandros, how are things with him? Does he send word in return?"  
Eudorus held out the ring sparkling with the natural luminosity of pearl, explaining the parting kiss Alexandros had imbued it with. Then, with a heavy heart, Eudorus gave over every detail he'd committed to memory, even unto the near rape he'd witness from the hall.  
By the end, Achilles was in a rage the likes of which Eudorus had never seen and wished never to see again. He ordered his armor brought and a ship made ready to sail with the tide. After that he spoke no more.  
The trip to Sparta was made in half the common time, in the depths of a moonless night. The men took this to be sign, an omen. Eudorus only shook his head as his lord used all his skill to access the innermost keep of the palace- Menelaus's domestic quarters. By the time they stood before the gilded double doors, set with an ostentatious display of rubies and pearls, Achilles's beautiful, aristocratic face had crystallized into a cold, rage-glazed mask and his commands were empty of emotion, whispered across the dark.  
Drawing his sword with a zing Achilles quietly pushed open the doors and went in, closing them behind him. Twenty horrible minutes later, Achilles opened Menelaus's door, closed it behind him, calmly wiping his blade on a dark rag and then smashing his fist into the wall. The yellow stone dented and cracks ran in every direction beneath his hand.  
"My lord?"   
Achilles smiled.  
Eudorus shuddered.  
"Return to the ship," Achilles hissed. Seeing the wind fluttering a rose-colored curtain in an open doorway, Achilles turned the opposite way and stalked like the predator he was down the hall.  
Licking his lips, Eudorus opened Menelaus's door. He stared at the bed, at what was on the bed, and fought to understand what his mind was seeing. When the message came through he fought to control his heaving guts. He turned away, sweating, from the open door and stood there, too dizzy to move.  
He knew he had to leave and only his years of repetitive training and dedicated discipline moved him from the steady frame.   
Fear, and the pain of his nails digging bloody half-crescents into his palms, cleared his head and he did the only sensible thing. He ran.

Knocking away the strong downward lunge, Achilles ducked and pivoted on his heel with fleet grace, darting right then left to attack his cousin's weaker left. Demonstrating his cousin's ill-timed counter, the reiteration of an old lesson, "Never hesitate," preempted a similarly intricate, feral move.  
Raising his wooden practice sword to the hollow sound of a successful defense, denying his cousin a swift kill-stroke, Patroclus smiled arrogantly at his Achilles, stabbing in forcefully only to be thrown by his own momentum passed a tumbled tier of stone. A rapid succession of blocks level with his torso kept Achilles on the defensive where he could observe his cousin's exuberant aggression and execution of long practiced techniques.  
"Nervous?" Patroclus taunted as he swung high, recovering from a failed upper-cut.  
Swatting aside his young cousin's next attack with patient, studious passivity, Achilles the golden lion struck out his hand, like a snake springing itself on a mouse, and gripped the boy's wrist loosely. Utilizing centrifugal leverage to uncomfortably twist Patroclus round on the balls of his feet, Achilles forced the errantly cocky youth back against an outstanding pillar, cowed by a wooden point to his neck.   
"Petrified."  
Releasing the captive wrist and bending back, displaying rare flexibility with possibilities, the experienced of the two fell low, passing his sword to his right behind his back, then springing up on his left foot just as his cousin was pulling out of a missed reverse cut. Achilles stopped his blade, dulled edge to Patroclus's neck, just along the shoulder.  
"I thought you taught me never to change sword hands," the youth scolded breathlessly, using the moment to employ a mastered flick of the wrist to roll his elder cousin's blade away and dip down on bowed knees, touching the ground briefly to rediscover his balance before bringing his weapon around to clash solidly with Achilles's.  
"Yes. When you know how to use it," Darting in, Patroclus lunged low, swung high, over-reaching himself only to fall to his knees as in a last ditch effort to steal victory he pitched forward. "You won't be taking my orders."  
Achilles trapped his practice blade against the dusty stone floor, kicking the wooden too across the levels of the ruins.  
Their dance through the crumbling, weathered ruins on the cliff had been blessed by a clear fair sky and the advantage of cool shadows slanted from the stone. Breathing easily, Achilles finally deemed the company of riders worth his attention, now that his play was through and so he walked from his panting cousin, still on all fours, to retrieve his spear. Hooking the shaft of the spear with his foot, Achilles kicked up the smooth wood and caught the weapon. Hefting it without needing to adjust his grip, Achilles stepped forward and through the spear, seeming not to aim.  
The knot of the tree that saw the spearhead buried inches deep could easily have been the head of the alarmed man at the head of the company, black from the plumes of his helmet to the flanks of his stallion. Shaking his head once the deadly acknowledgment had been understood, the man, dressed for war, fought with the stubborn wood to take back the imbedded projectile.  
Patroclus followed behind his cousin as he went to greet their visitors.  
"You reputation for hospitality is fast becoming legend!" He laughed, removing his helmet and tossing the spear to its owner. Achilles caught it and put it aside, reaching back to twist his almost painfully curious cousin's wrist, smiling pleasantly as he gasped. Pressing the scuffed wooden point to his spine, Achilles introduced, "Patroclus, my cousin."  
Achilles released him. "Odysseus, king of Ithaca."  
"Patroclus. I knew your parents well." Odysseus gripped his shoulder as he mused, "I miss them."  
Patroclus nodded silently, his eyes lowered and the ingenuous smile dissolved. The king smiled then at Achilles, looking between the two, for physical similarities. "Now you have this one watching over you, eh? Learning from Achilles himself. Kings would kill for the honor."  
"Are you here at Agamemnon's bidding?"  
Odysseus hesitated, rubbing his chin as he did, Achilles knew, when he was scheming. "We need to talk."  
As they walked away together, closer to the inspiring vista, Achilles baldly stated, "I will not fight for him." There was a certain black venom in the mans voice, something sharp and fine that at its end would find any who probed too deeply, unwanted, dead as stone and twice as cold.  
Changing tactics, Odysseus said, "I'm not asking you to fight for him. I'm asking you to fight for the Greeks."  
"Why? Are the Greeks tired of fighting each other?" Beside him, his cousin smiled slightly, appreciating the dry humor and Odysseus's correlating answer of, "For now."  
"The Trojans never harmed me. They even hold something very precious in trust for me, for the moment."  
Odysseus's voice grew agitated. "They insulted Greece."  
"As I heard it, Greece insulted them. I am more intimate with this situation than you know. Beware your clever tongue, king of fox's. My business in this conflict has naught to do with pride, or gold, or blood."  
"Your business is war, my friend."  
"Is it? The man has no honor. I killed his brother, slaughtered him and the whore in his bed and still Agamemnon forges ahead with his war mongering."  
"That is because he needs you. He's already claimed his brother's lands, his wife, and his wealth. There's but one thing more that the man desires and for that Agamemnon's saying that the Trojans killed his brother. What rightousness there was on the side of the Trojans, the scales have tipped, at least if one follows the truth of rumors and accusations."  
"I killed his brother. I'll let no other man take that kill from me. That bastard wronged me in way I'll not speak about, but I could not suffer him to walk away from it with impunity."  
The son of Peleus looked away to the vastness of the sea and sky, taking a long breath. Odysseus was awed to see this man of all, who all thought could never be daunted, bated, or conquered, least of all by emotion, stood before him struggling to reign himself in.  
"Let Achilles fight for honor. Let Agamemnon fight for power." The wily king coaxed, undaunted. "And let the gods decide which man to glorify."  
"For the Greeks!" Patroclus proclaimed, throwing himself into a strong lunge aimed for his cousin's middle, but with a seamless, un-roused fluidity, Achilles turned the attack away, sending Patroclus stumbling behind him.   
"Forget Agamemnon!" Odysseus continued, smiling as the young Patroclus turned his training on his master to the offbeat clash of wood against wood. "Forget Menelaus! Fight for me! My wife will feel much better if she knows you're by my side. I'll feel much better."  
With his attention on the appealing king, Achilles rebuffed his cousin's attacks with such ease that the young man could do nothing else but push himself harder. Alas, the student remained the student as the teacher smack his arse with the flat of his blade, wringing a yelp and a hot flush from the boy. Nineteen summers, it seemed, was not enough.  
From the sidelines Odysseus felt the need to drive his point home.  
"We're sending the largest fleet that ever sailed. A thousand ships."  
"Prince Hector. Is he a good a warrior as they say?" Patroclus asked, messaging his wrists.  
"The best of all the Trojans. Some say he's better than all the Greeks too." Swallowing a mouthful or water, Achilles smirked at the smoothly injected insinuation. Ah, the old fox certainly had not changed.  
"Even if your cousin doesn't come…" Odysseus met Patroclus's eyes, man-to-man. "… I hope you'll join us. We could use a strong arm like yours."  
Reaching out to clasp the young mans arm amiably, his arm fell back instantly as the practice sword cut down between the king and Patroclus. "Play your tricks on me, but not my cousin."  
"You have your swords. I have my tricks. We play with the toys the gods give us." His grin faded as he searched and tried to read that handsome face yielding, to his regret and puzzlement, not an inch of yearning for the coming war. No longing for immortality or eternal fame to be found, only a twisted, darker ruthlessness that the old Achilles had hinted at, but now was in season.  
"We sail for Troy in three days," Odysseus ended abruptly, disturbed at this evolution in character that for all his tricks and powers of deductive reasoning he could not explain. There was something missing here and he would know it. The king of Ithaca turned back at the top of the steps. "This war will never be forgotten. Nor the heroes who fight in it."  
Achilles narrowed his eyes against the sun, staring out over the sea, his mind distant. Patroclus waited by his side before leaving on his own.

TBC...  
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	13. Beloved Enemy

Chapter Thirteen: Beloved Enemy

She was beautiful, simply beautiful kneeling in the shallow rock pool by the sea, on the shore of what ages of men named Larisa. Tumbles of auburn curls arranged in braided plaits with turquoise beads, blue as her cornflower eyes, gleamed elegantly in the parade of sunlight. So enchanting was her voice, so regal her manner and her lovely willowy form that even Zeus himself had barely restrained his lust for her. Nereid she were, sea-nymph, and mother of Achilles, the son destined to be mightier than his father. This was why Zeus refrained from claiming his time in Thetis's bed, the prophecy that a child greater in all respects than his sire would be born to her.  
Achilles watched her wade the clear water where that she loved so, collecting bits of shell from the sandy sea floor. It was reluctantly that he intruded upon her peace and the ease of the afternoon but there was nothing for it, he must speak with her. Courageous and bold though he was, perhaps invulnerable save his heel where his mother held him as she dipped him into the river Styx, he could not see before his time. Her wisdom and foresight, her undemanding company, were his dearest wants just then.  
Stepping into the water and walking towards his mother, he watched the sun refract on the ripples his passing stirred.  
"I knew they would come for you. Long before you were born… I knew they would come." the wind blew gently, mussing his hair as he stopped to listen, folding his arms loosely. She turned to face him, the delicate lines on her face deepened as she whispered, "They want you to fight in Troy."  
Gold lion, some called him, but Achilles could not summon the strength to meet her eyes. Thetis nodded slightly as if she understood the conflict ruining him within.   
"I'm making you another seashell necklace. Like the ones I used to make you when you were a boy…" She bent down to retrieve a rounded shell that shimmered faintly pink in the direct attention of the sun. She laughed as she turned it this way and that. "Do you remember?"  
Achilles, out of habit to help his mother, folded his body and lifted a shell. He examined it without seeing it.   
"Mother…" He dropped it with a belated plunk into the knee high pool. "… tonight I decide. Patroclus has determined to go, with or without me. He gives the honor of Greece as his reason." Achilles laughed bitterly. "He goes to his death. And how can I abandon him to it? How now do the gods force me to decide between the love of my blood and the love of my soul? Tell me now mother. What do you see?"  
"If you stay in Larisa…" her preternaturally bright eyes flickered as if she were watching events behind the brilliant blue that no one else could see, imparting to him as she witnessed it. Carefully she told him, "You will find peace. You will ask me to help you forget, and I will. Your beloved as you know him will be known to your heart no longer as Alexandros, and Patroclus will be a name whispered only by the dead in far away Troy. You will find a wonderful women. You will have sons and daughters, and they will have children. And they will love you." She toyed distractedly with the thumb-sized shells in her palm. "When you are gone, they will remember you."  
Taking a step through the water, rolling the shells, Thetis sighed, knowing she could not leave the picture incomplete, adding "But when your children are dead and their children after them… your name will be lost."  
Achilles frowned hard, shifting his feet.  
Clasping her hands together, Thetis lowered her head and met her son's angry, confused eyes. Walking up to him and tipping her head back, with all of the dignity of a goddess, she painted before him his other possible future, resigned to the choice she already knew he would make.  
"If you go to Troy… glory will be yours. They will write stories about your victories for thousands of years. The world will remember your name. But if you go to Troy…" She desperately cupped his cheek, searching his conflicted face with all the knowing of a mother. She found her answer, sadly. "You will never come home. For your glory walks hand in hand with doom."  
Releasing his face she gathered herself and stepped back, proudly baring her pain. "And I shall never see you again."  
Averting his face, Achilles found a small measure of peace that his decision had been made, but beyond the confirmation of it, his soul screamed. 

At the helm of his ship with black sails, crewed by his loyal Myrmidons fifty strong, Achilles stared out across the sea toward Troy, sending his prays, rare things in themselves, to his beloved enemy.

TBC...  
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	14. Some Degree of Woe

Chapter Fourteen: Some Degree of Woe

Far gone, unblinking, Paris navigated the well-lit, sweeping hallways and door-less arches. These stone and marble walls had been his home for less than a two years, had seen his transfiguration from humble, naïve Alexandros to stately, insecure Paris. His tears and his first tentative foray into princely duty, his surprised wonder at exploring a whole new world; these walls had seen it all. They did not judge his evolution as he experienced the life that he could have had if things had turned out different. Memories, however, like nightmares, oppressed his resolve to send word to Mount Ida, to the old man who lived there. With every step a new weight suffered on his young shoulders; titles and manners and a careful dance of words that purposefully blurred the lines of falsehood and truth until even he could not tell black from white. Hector told him these things take time. But what if they were lessons he did not wish to learn?

His slender hips were wrapped in black cloth and his shoulders folded in black as well as the sea-scented breeze tugged fitfully at the fabric, pulling it open and dragging it along the floor behind him. Clean and undressed of all material finery, Paris looked about himself as he walked, taking in nothing with his blank, staring eyes. Flamed in the bright, flickering light of the braziers, his dazed mind could not help super-imposing images of happier times when stress and comportment were concepts yet unlearned and undeveloped. The sorrowful ache of regret was twisting Paris's stomach with a soured longing that nearly reduced the young man to tears. Nearly, but he'd shed enough to fill the sea as it was. He would weep no more.

The ship baring them from Sparta had docked early and by mid-afternoon the fabled gates of Troy had been thrown open with all haste and ceremony to admit them. Their homecoming was to be a celebrated affair. Prince Hector, Tamer of Horses, and Paris, Beloved of the Gods. The fanfare within the city was a sight Paris would never forget. The utter adulation and recognition of the people for their princes was tremendous indeed, and completely unexpected from the humiliation Paris was sure all could see on his flushed, averted face. Astride his sable mare he had a fine view of the entire circus, from beginning to end. Hanging from windows, porches, balconies, and draping themselves from pillars, shop fronts, and temple steps, the people of Troy had turned out down to a man just to see them. It turned Paris's head.

The rain of flowers; pink, white, blue, yellow, orange, and red had been so thick that the young prince had barely been able to see the sky.

Still terribly embarrassed by the spectacle being made of himself, Paris had silently will the procession to move faster, feeling like a stunted weed in a field of vivacious wild roses. It was no mistake to say he was wound tightly. Even his hands were squeezing the reigns too tight, trembling slightly. He'd tried his best to still them, pressing them against his decretive silver armor. The day had gone on much like that, taking by surprise.

Coming to his rooms, Paris quietly dismissed his attendants and stood by his window, arms wrapped tightly about him self. The moon was a waxing crescent over the black sea. The clouds that tried their best to swallow the moon whole were dark and heavy and as dense as the sense of tension that rode the air. The Greeks were coming, drawing closer with each gust of favorable wind. Paris could feel it. He knew Hector could feel it, too.

Thinking back to that afternoon as he'd walked up the stairs after Hector had stepped away from their father's warm embrace. Hector had watched him fondly as devoured the pride and kindness, even love, the old king fairly beamed at him when they came together. It had been a bittersweet moment for him as a young man as each of his cheeks were anointed with a tender kiss and his raw, desperately hopeful face was held between two deliberate hands. Priam, it seemed now as he revisited the moment, had been just as intent upon his sons face as he had been upon his fathers.

Paris, as much as he yearned for the love and acceptance of this lost parent, the man who had taught him, sheltered him, saved him, and raised him to be a good, honest, hard working man was just as lost to him now. Would his gentle father stand to recognize him were he to make the backwards mistake of returning home? Would it not be safer for his heart to never taste the bitterness of such profound disappointment realized? Better that his home and childhood should be relegated to the golden-hued halls of immortal memory, than be cast now into the harsh light of his new self awareness. Yes, unfortunately, the old adage was true: you can never return home.

Yet, was it so wrong, he'd pondered passionately, looking into his fathers eyes, to need this kingly man before him to want him in return? As well, where was his anger at being so abandoned by his sire? Why was his wrath at being left for no less than dead not terrible and spiteful?

Even as Paris searched the black horizon for the slightest sign of a ships approach, he sighed and fell lethargically against a pillar. When has his life become so mired in complications? Simplicity, practicality, forthrightness- had been the cornerstones of his life. He was having to redefine all and it ate at him. He had drastically differing obligations now. He had power now. But oh, how he'd give it all up for his only, greatest, dream. Achilles would return to him in their grove by the river, make love to him, then take him by the hand to his ship and on they would sail to Larisa, to the wonderfully humble home his lover had been preparing for them. Down to the last detail, Alexandros could imagine each room, the splendid view of the sea under the sun and moon, the firm bed…

Turning his head to look at the lavish bedding, in Trojan blue instead of Spartan red, with its soft feather mattress and pillows plumped for his comfort, Paris returned his attention to the sea. His bed was empty, his heart in turmoil, and his future, the future of Troy itself, was uncertain at best. All he could do was wait and pray.

Patience was something Prince Paris of Troy had learned very well.

TBC…

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	15. A Heaven On Earth

Dong

Dong

Dong

Hector stood bare-chested in the morning sun, eyes cast to the horizon and the massive fleet of solid shapes breaking from the shimmering haze thrown back by the sun-stoked waters.

Andromache held their son to her breast in the shade of their room, mindlessly rocking the babe. Astynax continued to wail.

Hector spared no words, not a single reassuring glance, for her his wife and mother of his son; his duty set before him. As he ran for his armor, Andromache came into the sunlight and squinted her hazel eyes at the sea. Hector had told her, had confided to her the grand, impossible scope of this conflict, but this… she cuddled her fussing child closer to her heart and pressed urgent kisses to his fuzzy crown. This sight, still yet far from her family, put the fear of Aries into her. She broke her attention like bread between her warrior husband, Troy's champion, the haunted coast, and the people scurrying like busy, busy ants through the streets below.

Hector would depart to greet the enemy ships filled with enemy soldiers with a blaze of glory upon his head, and it would be magnificent and inspirational to every level of man in witness. Only she, and perhaps little Paris, knew that Hector was not the undefeatable giant who felt no fear and no pain- oh, Hector felt fear, and yes, even pain! He was suseptable to doubt and guilt and regret. He was mortal after all; he bled. Not afraid for himself, in the end, but for his family, his people, his city. Let all the stones of all the walls be crushed to dust, their fine bobbles be melted down to balls of precious metal, only Hector would take this with no outcry or challenge, if he could find his way. His honor and strength were found in his ability to guide others- to serve, it came down to that. If he could not serve others, Hector would cease to have purpose and without purpose, Hector would cease to be.

Let you Greeks bring what might you may against us, Andromache defied the looming sails drawing closer with each moment, Hector will always be a better man than any you send against him, kings or lords or mighty warriors! Let you Greeks have what you can take!

Hector vaulted on to his horse. Proud creature that it was, it gave no quarrel this time, willingly surrendering to the sharp kick of its masters heels. As Hector galloped from the stables and through the palace gates into the city, Hector's bronze helmet shone in the sun.

Paris lightly went to his window, his hands trembling as they held away the sheer curtain he'd dawn sometime in the night. A knock at his door and the voice of the amusing, and motherly, youth who'd been seeing to his consummate care since his arrival in Troy became second to the hollow, menace of the warning bell echoing across the city. Taking a deep, full breath of tangy open air, Paris whispered, "So it begins."

A tear skated down his cheek and shivered on his chin.

Dong

Dong

Men rose from wrinkled beds and the arms of sated, sorrowful wives to fulfill private superstitions and make their offerings to the gods. The men donned their armor solemnly and the wives kissed them goodbye, cursing the ache in their breast and trying not to cry, they watched their husbands or lovers leave them to report to their superiors. The babes and children of these men slept soundly still curled around their dolls, not knowing the precautions being taken around them to secure their peace for on more evening, to save them from the swords and violent ill intentions of the approaching enemy.

Archers were put to the walls, their famed horsemen collected in the cavalry, the infantry was gathered; they had all trained and some had fought before. Undefeated Troy. Impregnable city of gold.

The soldiers stationed on the beach prepared as men forewarned of impending attack are compelled to do, digging in the sand and planting stakes like a farmer would sow his seeds, but these were not vessels for new growth, these were sharpened tools for death. Ditches were carved, archers ordered atop the squat, guard posts half buried by the sand itself, and the most was made of the incline from the beach to the flat plains that led up to the very gates of the city.

"Take up your positions!"

The footprints in the sand darkened as the sun rose overhead.

Dong

Dong

Mothers and sisters collected screaming children, traders grabbed up what good they could bare away in their arms, farmers and shop keepers sought out family and friends unaccounted for and ushering them to places of safety. Startled livestock became shy and stubborn, unmovable in the middle of the riot, needing bribes and a hand firm hand to move them along. Those outside the walls were herded in like sheep by armed soldiers of Troy carrying spears and shields and commanding tones of voice.

Priam left his gilded temple at dawn. Dizzy with hunger, chilled to his bones, and stiff from his spending a moons rotation on his knees in reverence to Apollo, the Great One, king Priam's feverish blue eyes widened and his muscles spasmed. The bells along the wall tolled. Greece was at his gates, Agamemnon at his shores, and the threat of an army larger than has ever been seen filled his view.

Priam clasped his hands together and lifted them above his head, towards the rising sun, chanting, "Hear me, Shining Apollo, be with your children now and in the hour of our greatest triumph!"

At the head of the Greek mass of ships, a single black sail pulled ahead.

TBC...  
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	16. Opals and Waves

_Opal dark eyes sparkled beneath fluttering lashes. A pink, wet tongue moistened trembling lips spread before a sweet, deep groan. _

_"Achilles…" the youth whimpered, lifting his slender, tempting hips in supplication. His shaking hands roaming frantically over his lovers rippling back and his long fingers clenched tightly in loose golden hair. Oh, but lovemaking had never been so divine! _

_"Please, please, beloved, do not tease, do not tease me!"_

_Licking the salt and musk from the slick, bronze flesh between his lips, Achilles brought their bodies together hard, filling his beloved with his cock. When his larger hands caressed the hairless, heaving chest beneath his, pausing to pinch a tender nipple, the beautiful Shepard tightened delicious around his organ and arched his back, mewling like a kitten._

_Achilles threw his head back, his blue eyes wide to the over-cast day. Grunting, he lowered his head to claim those bruised lips, devouring his mouth with a passionate plunging of his tongue. While he did this he thrust again and again into his lover, driving loud, helpless cries from his throat. He relished spearing this youth who was already stimulated beyond coherent thought._

_As his climax fell upon him, driving him into the very depths of pleasure, Achilles growled into the soft, peach-scented hair around the boy's neck, "Alexandros! Oh, gods, Alexandros!"_

The black armored men, fearsome Myrmidons, hearty souls all, rowed with a strength and single-mindedness surpassing men of normal means, cutting through the mild waves to the beat of their oars upon the water. No man aboard could say that time and tide had done him harm, only that it had not been kind. Still, for what time the gods had granted them, they would rather be no farther than a strong summons from their lord.

The most loyal and devoted of these fifty warriors at present made his way to the bow of the swift ship, his wind-teased hair and dark beard drawing out the startling blue of his eyes, which were at the moment narrowed and wary.

"My lord!" He called, stopping short. "Should we wait for the others?"

Achilles, face smiling deeply at the sea, schooled himself and turned to face his lieutenant. The man seemed as reluctant to disturb him as he was to be moved, so he answered simply, "They brought us here for war, didn't they?" Then he returned his eyes to the water.

"Yes, but Agamemnon's orders-"

"You fight for me, Eudorus, or Agamemnon?"

The question seemed to catch Eudorus but he did not hesitate. "For you, my lord." Had they not been on a warship bound for hostile shores, Eurodus would have fallen to his knees.

Patroclus moved toward them from the port side, holding to a rope to keep his balance. Achilles avoided his gaze.

Achilles turned to Eurodus. "Then fight for me." He gestured with his eyes to the ships falling behind them. For lack of courage, the warrior pricked darkly. "And let the servants of Agamemnon fight for him. And die for him."

"Black sail," the general confirmed, "Achilles."

Agamemnon joined them, looking from his brother's sun-stained face to the distant ship they pointed the man pointed to.

"What's the fool doing? He's going to take the beach of Troy with fifty men?"

Troy's eldest prince galloped hard through the clogged streets and over-run avenues of his city, already two feet on the ground before his horse had been handed off to a stable hand. He removed his helmet as the entered the darker armory where soldiers handed out spears, swords, and helmets, shields to those who would go out with the guard.

It was ordered chaos, efficient, practiced insanity that Hector wove his way through. He found one of his most trusted men already arrived.

"Tecton," he called loudly over the clunking of metal and din of voices, "Is the Apollonian Guard ready?"

"Waiting at the city gates."

"Good. I'll be right there." They separated with no more words.

Hector had not taken ten steps before he found another of his men helping to pass along weapons.

"Lysander!" The man stepped down from a latter to speak with his prince. "How long before the army is ready?"

"Half of our men are still coming. We have to arm them, we have to match them with the hor-"

"How long?"

"Noon."

With an affirmative nod, Hector was already on his way with the passing order, "Make it sooner."

TBC…  
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	17. Like Madness Is The Glory Of Life!

"Spear."

Eudorus passed on the wooden shaft, looking the young man over with an inscrutable expression before turning away as his own spear was handed him. Another of the men, Diogenes, shook his shaggy head as the watched Patroclus pass by him to answer their lords call.

"Go with the gods, boy, if they see fit to follow."

"Put down your spear."

"But I'm fighting the Trojans, cousin."

"Not today." Achilles tightened the laces of his wrist guards, testing their give as he looked his confused cousin in the eyes.

"But I'm ready." The youth defended fervently, "You taught me how to fight."

Achilles took up his cousin's spear and clutched the narrower shoulders familiarly. "And you're a good student. But you're not a Myrmidon yet."

Seeing still the resistance and lurking defiance he said, "Look at these men." Achilles continued, guiding his cousin to view the men around them who made ready for landing.

"They are the fiercest soldiers in all of Greece. Each of them has bled for me." He smoothed Patroclus's short blond hair and warrior knots. "You will guard the ship."

"But this is a war-"

Achilles pulled him close, held him hard against his chest so that he could not pull back. Eyes on the scuffed boards of the ship, Achilles spoke earnestly into his cousin's ear more harshly than he had intended. A confession, it was, being as much a gesture of concern as an order of command. Had that not been the reason for his entry into this damned war?

"Cousin, I can't fight the Trojans if I'm concerned for you. You wanted war- you have it, but you will not disobey me in this. Guard the ship." He released him suddenly and turned away, almost as if he could no longer bear the sight of him.

The young man stared hard at the back of the golden warrior sharpening his sword. When his cousin refused to acknowledge him again he bristled, stung. Throwing down his shield in a fit of temper bred from endless frustration, Patroclus fled to the other end of the ship. Far from his cousin and the love that he both cherished and resented.

Four additional soldiers, newly arrived, joined the proud ranks of the Apollonian Guard without. Arrayed before the gates through which peasants and farmers from outlying communities still fled, seeking the protection of strong walls and trained soldiers. It was an inspiring sight.

Beside Hector rode Glaucus, a revered general of the old order who had for forty years and some, defended Troy's good name and represented Her strength. From Glaucus had Hector learned the art of war; strategy, tactics, weapons and above all a respect for ones enemies. Be they honorable or no.

"It is not the quality of your opponent," Glaucus had schooled a very young Hector, "which determines the glory gained from victory, but the way in which you present yourself to fight it. Fairness and honor in deeds large or smalls begets fairness and honor before family and the gods."

Presently, old war horse gesture for silence among the men and bowed his head to his prince.

"TROJANS!" Hector removed his helmet shortly. Taking the reigns of his horse, Antares, he addressed his men with a clear, loud voice.

"All my life, I've lived by a code. And the code is simple: Honor the gods, love your women… and defend your country!"

The men cheered, hoisting their spears aloft. Hector continued through the noise. "Troy is mother to us all. Fight for her!"

Raising his helmet as if it were the head of his enemy, he rode the length of the Calvary line, roaring with his men beneath the hot sun at high noon. Turning his horse, he led the Guard to the shore in a cloud of tawny dust.

Paris stepped from his room dressed in blue and black. The colors he wore were thoughtfully chosen, if any had cared to ask why. The blue in observance of his respect for Troy and the black to mark the memory of his absent lover who was never far from his thoughts. He wore no paints or oils, or bobbles save for a simple necklace made of shells that any common child would wear, fastened about his bared neck for all the world to see.

Just as he quietly shut his door and turned to go, he saw his mother coming from Cassandra's room, a bundle of fabric and jewels in her arms. Their eyes met compulsively, deeply, before Hecabe turned deliberately away, breaking their connection and a small piece of Paris's heart. Casting a weary look at the cool stone beneath his sandaled feet, a statue of sorrow, Paris collected himself and went his own way.

Within near sight of Apollo's golden temple, over-looking a stretch of white-sanded beach, the Myrmidon ship with its promising black sails, bore down upon those who stood entrenched and in wait.

At the stern of his ship, bronze armor reflecting a divine glow from the sun, Achilles stood to face his men, his brothers-in-arms.

"Myrmidons…" He called, and they came. Battle ready and with bloody death a shine in their eyes and dark in the lines of their faces, Achilles gathered their attentions for the moments before they reached Troy.

"… my brothers of the sword. I'd rather fight beside you than any army of thousands."

They banged their swords against the deck in unison, fifty in all.

"Let no man forget how menacing we are. We are lions!"

The thudding of fifty spears began to sound as hollow thunder. Achilles turned disturbingly ferocious eyes on his men and pointed with his hand to Troy.

"Do you know what's there, waiting, beyond that beach?" His voice thrilled through his men like god-guided thunder, from Zeus himself.

Achilles lifted his sword and directed with its polished, honed blade, "Immortality! Take it! It's yours!"

His men bellowed and made such a cacophony that it was carried on the winds back to the trailing ships, as the sound of howling beasts. Achilles turned his sword, catching a beam of light, his face chilling.

The Myrmidon ship struck upon the beach.

TBC…  
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